CHAPTER XIX.
THE OLD SCOTTISH SERVICE.
The soul which ne'er hath felt a genial ray
Glow to the drum's long roll or trumpet's bray;
Start to the bugle's distant blast, and hail
Its buxom greetings on the morning gale—
Such the muse courts not.
LORD GRENVILLE.
On the return of Walter Fenton to the White Horse Cellar, Douglas, who was lounging on the broad flight of steps in front of the edifice, and chatting gaily with a buxom damsel of the establishment, informed him that Holsterlee of the Life Guards had just been there, saying that the Earl of Dunbarton and the Lords of the Privy Council required his attendance at the Lower Chamber—immediate attendance.
His mind became troubled at this information: though unconscious of having done anything new to incur displeasure, it was with considerable anxiety he bent his steps to the precincts of that dreaded tribunal.
The Lairds of Craigdarroch and Holsterlee, (or as the latter was commonly called, Jack Holster,) two of Claverhouse's cavalier troopers lounged in the antechamber smoking their Dutch pipes, while the yeomen of the Scottish Guard in their blue bonnets and scarlet doublets, armed with long daggers and gilt partisans, thronged the Parliament Close and outer lobby of the house.
Their presence in some degree lessened his anxiety, as the absence of the military police of the city, and the viler menials of the law, announced that matters of state, and not of inquisitorial persecution were before that powerful and extraordinary conclave. He waited long in the well-known antechamber, whose features brought back a host of gloomy thoughts, amid which his mind wandered continually to the house of Bruntisfield; but he endeavoured to mingle in the gay conversation of the two guardsmen, who talked nonsense as glibly and laughed as loudly as if they had been in Hugh Blair's tavern on the opposite side of the square, instead of being within earshot of those whose names were a terror to the land. After all that was of importance to the state had been discussed and dismissed, Walter, on being summoned by the drawling and hated voice of Maclutchy found himself before the same bench of haughty councillors he had confronted a few weeks before; but now its aspect was different; the rays of the meridian sun streamed cheerfully into their dusky place of meeting, and hangings which appeared sable before were now seen to be of crimson velvet, fringed and tasselled with gold, gilded chairs, and the throne surmounted by the royal arms with the gallant Lion in defence; the rich and varied dresses of the Lords, massively laced and jewelled with precious stones, embroidered belts, and embossed sword-hilts, were all sparkling in the several flakes of light that gushed between the strong stanchells of the ancient windows into the gloomy and vaulted room.
The stern basilisk eye of Clermistonlee alone was fixed on Walter as before.
The Lord High Treasurer, the Chancellor, and the sleepy Mersington, withdrew as our hero entered. Near the head of the table stood the Earl of Dunbarton in his rich military dress of scarlet, with the cuffs slashed and buttoned up to reveal the lawn sleeves below; his gallant breast was sheathed in a corslet of polished steel, beautifully inlaid with gold, and over it fell his lace cravat and the sable curls of his heavy peruke. His badge as Commander-in-chief of the Forces, an ivory baton with silver thistles twined round it was in one hand; the other rested on his plumed head piece. The magnificence of his attire formed a strong contrast to that of the stern Dalyel, who wore a plain suit of black armour like that of a curiassier of Charles I., but rusted by blood and perspiration, and defaced by sword cuts and musquet balls, it was a panoply with which his long silvery beard and iron, but dignified face corresponded well. Making a half military obeisance to these Lords of Council, Walter, felt not a little reassured by the presence of his patron the Earl and Sir Thomas Dalyel.
"Mr. Fenton," said the former, "we have much pleasure in presenting you with that to which your merits so much entitle you—a pair of colours in my ancient regiment of Royal Scots, vacant by the death of young Toweris of that ilk, who has been slain in a late camisadoe in the north, with some broken rascals of the Clan-Donald. You will therefore hear the king's commission read over, and thereafter sign your oath of fealty to us without delay, as the day is wearing apace." Taking up a small piece of parchment to which appeared the Great Seal of Scotland, the signatures of the King and Secretary of State, and his (Dunbarton's) own seal with the four quarters of Douglas, the Earl read the following, which we give verbatim:—